Thin Ice
by Joodiff
Summary: The past is the past. Isn't it? Complete. Birthday present for Stargate-Lover-Steph. Enjoy!


**DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing.

_A/N: This fic uses canon established in the BBC's 2018 official WtD audio prequel "The Unforgiven"._

Happy birthday to Stargate-Lover-Steph. xx

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**Thin Ice**

by Joodiff

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Unbelievably, one of the three dedicated parking spaces allocated to the CCU is in use when Frankie arrives ridiculously early for work. She's frowning in perplexed disbelief as she drives into the compound and the automated metal security gate grinds closed behind her. Though assigned to the unit itself and not to specific individuals, everyone understands and accepts the unspoken rule that of the trio the space closest to the building's rear door belongs to Boyd, and the one next to it to Grace. The rest of the unit's staff simply squabble daily over the third space with the losers parking wherever they can within the compound itself, or even, on rare occasions, out on the street beyond. Today, the coveted third space is hers by at least a two-hour margin. The second space is also conspicuously empty, but Boyd's space… Boyd's space is already occupied by his big silver Lexus.

What on earth, Frankie wonders, as she manoeuvres carefully into the awkwardly-angled third space, is he doing here so damned early? It's not quite six in the morning, for heaven's sake. Once she's parked, out of her car, and has gathered coat, briefcase and the two bulging box files she took home the night before, she heads for the entry-coded door next to the other car. In passing, after some swift juggling, she puts a hand on its bonnet, expecting to detect a lingering trace of engine warmth that might help her judge just how long he's been here. There's none. The metal is stone cold under her palm, indicating that the SUV hasn't been anywhere in at least the last couple of hours or more. Ridiculous. Surely not even _Boyd_ is dedicated enough to arrive for work in the middle of the sodding night?

Swiping her access card, Frankie makes her way into the labyrinthine, unattractive lower levels of the police-owned building. Bare stone walls and limited signage. Storage and maintenance areas, most of it, with the Cold Case Unit's semi-subterranean headquarters squatting inelegantly amongst the blockwork and ducting. Not for them the big, bright, open-plan offices on the upper floors, where CID rubs shoulders with other high-profile departments. Frankie is not the only one to suspect that Boyd likes it that way, prefers to keep his small, autonomous and highly-specialised unit well away from anything and anyone that might attempt to encroach upon it. Suits her perfectly well since she spends most of her time in the lab anyway.

Descending to the claustrophobic squad room, she finds it as silent and empty as she expects. A few more notes, all of them in Boyd's distinctive, impatient scrawl, have appeared on the transparent evidence board where the graphic, enlarged photograph of Keith Broome's mummified corpse forms a natural hub for all the other pictures and information that spoke out around it. Nothing else seems to have changed in the hours between now and her final visit the evening before. Grace's office is still dark, the door still firmly shut. The privacy blinds shielding Boyd's office from inquisitive eyes are closed, exactly as they were when Frankie left for home, but the door is now slightly ajar, and there's only a subdued light – possibly his desk lamp – visible. Temporarily depositing her belongings on Spencer's desk, a curious Frankie goes to investigate.

The small desk light is indeed illuminated, she discovers, and Boyd's grey suit jacket is hanging from the back of his executive swivel chair, but of the man himself there is no immediate sign. Puzzled, she takes a careful step further into his office, and as she does so all her questions are answered in one glance. Peter Boyd is most definitely present, but he is in no way conscious. Stretched out horizontally across the neat line of padded chairs set together along the half-glazed wall next to the stairs, he's mostly buried beneath the voluminous folds of the long dark topcoat that should be hanging on the hook below the wall clock behind her. Head on a cushion, eyes closed, there is no doubt at all that he is deeply, soundly asleep. The slow, regular breathing and occasional soft snore confirm it. Above the edge of his makeshift blanket, a strip of mauve shirt collar is just visible. Yesterday's shirt. He's not early for work – he never left.

Frankie approaches with a considered amount of caution. Their shared history beyond the CCU may be a delicate subject that rarely, if ever, gets directly alluded to, much less overtly discussed, but that doesn't make it any less real, and because of it she's well-aware of just how bad-tempered he can be if unexpectedly startled awake. He doesn't stir at all as she moves, however. Remains inert and lost in his own dream world.

"Idiot," she mutters under her breath, half irritable, half affectionate. He works far too hard. Always has, for as long as she's known him. Probably, he intended to grab a quick cat-nap before finishing whatever it was he was doing and then dragging himself home to his big, empty house on the other side of the river. If that was his plan, it's been a spectacular failure. Deciding to risk his fearsome displeasure, she tries a calculated, "Boyd."

No response. Still asleep, still no change in the pattern of his breathing.

Hands on hips, Frankie studies him with narrow-eyed deliberation. She could, of course, leave him where he is to wake up in his own good time. If he doesn't stir before, the loud, chattering arrival of their other colleagues will certainly disturb him. She can picture Mel's vindictive amusement as he emerges blinking and sleep-befuddled from his lair. That alone is almost worth leaving him asleep for. Almost, but not quite. Boyd in a ferocious bad mood is something Frankie's got a vested interest in avoiding today. Deciding on what seems to her to be a reasonable course of action, she takes a half-step closer to his recumbent form and nudges him with her knee. "_Boyd_."

This time there is a slight hitch in his breathing followed by vague, resentful mutter that dies away as he settles again. Not sure if she's amused or infuriated, Frankie gazes down at him. There are, she knows, ways to wake him that do not result in simmering malevolence for the rest of the day. None of them are at all suitable for a work setting, however, and _all_ of them would constitute a severe breach of the tacit, complicated treaty of careful avoidance that has existed between them for more years than the CCU has been in existence.

Complicated. A very good word to describe their… relationship. Now _and_ then, if she's completely honest. He, after all, was married to someone else back in the dangerous days when things were very different between them. Not his first marriage, either. Should've been enough to keep her well away from him. It wasn't. Doomed to end badly from the very start.

But.

With Boyd, there too often seems to be a 'but'. It's very annoying.

She nudges him with her knee again, not so gently. "Oi, sleeping beauty."

This time he growls and mumbles, and at least a couple of the muttered words she does manage to catch are not at all polite. She doesn't take it personally. Rather, she finds it funny. He never was at his best when only just awake. Before he can settle once again, she deploys her knee for a third time.

His eyes snap open. Dark and pitiless, they regard her with deep antipathy. "Fuck's sake, Frankie…"

"And good morning to you, too," she says, as bright and breezy as she can possibly make herself sound, just to annoy him. "Why are you sleeping in your office?"

He ignores the question. "What time is it?"

"Just gone six," Frankie informs him, adding for effect, "in the morning."

The news makes him blink. "What the…? Then why on earth are you…?"

It's an effort not to roll her eyes at him. Exasperating bloody man. "You said I could have the afternoon off if I got the Broome stuff finished this morning, remember?"

Boyd frowns, forehead creasing. "Afternoon off…?"

"Wakey, wakey," she says, loud and pointed. "What day is it today? No, on second thoughts, don't try to answer that. I'll only be offended."

Realisation seems to be dawning. "It's the… Oh. Right. It's your birthday."

"Congratulations," she says, giving him an approving nod. "Well done. Top of the class for you."

He pushes away his coat and levers himself up into a sitting position, yawning and running his fingers through his tousled hair. Sadly, the sleepy, dishevelled look rather suits him. Before she can consider that unfortunate fact too deeply, he says, "Traditionally, Frankie, Sleeping Beauty gets woken by a kiss, you do know that, don't you?"

"Do I look like a handsome prince?" she demands, and doesn't miss the arch, speculative way his thoughtful gaze immediately flickers over her. The past is the past, and they both know and mostly accept it, but sometimes, just sometimes…

"No," he says, sounding reflective. "Not really. Too – "

"Short?" Frankie suggests, before he can say anything more inflammatory. She really does know him far too well.

A tiny muscle in Boyd's cheek twitches betraying amusement, but his tone is grave as he replies, "That, too."

Uninvited, she flops down next to him, claiming some of the recently-vacated space. Shaking her head, she tuts. "Sleeping in your office, Boyd. Seriously?"

"Power-nap," he tells her, not moving. He yawns again, this time with extravagant emphasis. "Might have overdone it a bit."

"I'll say." Frankie glances at her watch, a purely mechanical action. "Well, if you get a move on you've probably got just enough time to nip home for a shower and a change of clothes before Grace arrives and gives you merry hell for completely forgetting to actually leave the building again."

He scratches at his beard, eyeing her with something akin to conspiratorial contemplation. "There's a perfectly good shower in the men's locker room, and a clean shirt in the back of my car. Unless _someone_ decides to grass me up, Grace will never find out."

"Ah ha," Frankie says, crossing her legs at the ankle. "Blackmail material. So, about my afternoon off…"

He gives her another long, steady look, then says, "Get me the Broome stuff by lunchtime, and the rest of the day's yours. One question."

Regarding him suspiciously, she asks, "What?"

His gaze is steady, interrogative. "Why are you avoiding the inevitable birthday pub crawl?"

Not the sort of question she was expecting. Still, she finds she's not altogether surprised. Boyd is a lot of things, but he's not stupid. Not at _all_. Immediately defensive she retorts, "I'm not."

Still regarding her, he snorts. "Do I look as if I was born bloody yesterday, Frankie? Try again."

He always did have an annoying ability to read her far too well. At least when it suited him. Shrugging, she tries a deliberately nonchalant, "Maybe I have other plans."

"Except you don't, do you." It's not framed as a question. The intense, intelligent dark eyes continue to study her closely. "C'mon, out with it."

"I just…" she begins, then sighs. Lying to him rarely works, and it never ends well. "Oh, you wouldn't understand."

"Try me."

"It's depressing, all right?" she says after a moment, realising he's not going to let the matter drop. "The unpleasant truth that the most exciting thing I'm likely to end up doing on my bloody birthday is going out boozing with you lot. It's not even as if you and Grace will hang around for more than a couple of drinks, and after that I'll be left on my own trying to stop Laurel and Hardy dragging me off to some Godawful club run by one of Spence's dodgy friends-of-a friend." Frankie glowers at him to stress her point. "And don't smirk at me like that – it's not _you_ who has to put up with it. Every. Bloody. Year."

He tilts his head a fraction. "You do know they won't give up that easily?"

It had occurred to her. United, Mel and Spencer are a formidable force, and they are very good at latching onto any excuse for a party. Glowering, she snaps, "Shut up, Boyd. If we weren't so busy, I'd have booked the whole bloody week off."

"Somewhat extreme," he comments, his tone mild. He stretches, then continues, "All right, all right, have it your own way. Never let it be said I'm not a man of my word."

"And _don't_ tell them," she adds with another scowl. "I don't want them to have time to organise an ambush."

Boyd raises his eyebrows at her. "Do you want me to burn the birthday card I may or may not have got for you, as well?"

"Ha, that'll be the day," Frankie scoffs, her derision well-founded. "The card you may or may not have conned Mel or Grace into getting for me because you couldn't be arsed to do it yourself, more like."

"You wound me, Frankie," he says, getting to his feet and flexing his shoulders as if to rid himself of some residual stiffness. She watches as he paces towards his desk, half-tempted to follow him to re-establish their physical proximity. All this damned time, and there are still moments when she's struck by unexpected force of an occasional inappropriate memory. The intoxicating sensation of the warm smoothness of his bare skin against hers being just one that sometimes returns unbidden to torment her.

Oblivious to the direction of her thoughts, Boyd rifles through the top drawer of his desk, gives a satisfied grunt and triumphantly holds up a card-sized pale blue envelope. "Oh, ye of little faith."

"Okay," she grudgingly concedes, trying not to be pleased, "so you remembered to get me a birthday card. Doesn't mean you bought it yourself."

The slow, crooked smile he deploys in response makes her want to forget every stern thought of common-sense and clear professional boundaries. "You think I'd trust anyone else with something as important as buying your birthday card, Frankie?"

"Prick," she says. She's called him far worse over the years, sometimes with ironic affection, sometimes not.

Unperturbed, he says, "Now, now, less of that. You want this, or not?"

She does. But indifference is all part of their well-practised game. "I don't know. Does it come with flowers, chocolates, or something ruinously expensive?"

"So materialistic," Boyd says with a sorrowful shake of his head.

"So deluded," she corrects. "What was it you gave me last year? Oh, yes. Absolutely bloody nothing, because you completely forgot even though Grace reminded you at least twice to my certain knowledge."

Card still held aloft, he regards her with steady amusement. "And the year before?"

Oh. Yeah. There was that… Raising her chin a fraction, Frankie holds his gaze. "Best not discussed."

"It's not easy," he says, with a clearly feigned note of melancholy. "Shopping for the ex is always a bloody minefield."

"Stop," she retorts, though she's not sure she wants him to. Despite everything, despite how things are, and how they're supposed to stay, there's something rather… pleasing… about hearing him in any way acknowledge that other lifetime. The one where he… where they… No. Too loudly, she adds, "Let's just go with 'happy birthday, Frankie' and leave it there, shall we?"

Pushing six foot in bare feet and proportionally well-built, he moves surprisingly swiftly and silently when he wants to. He's right in front of her almost before she's aware of it. Looking down at her, he says, "Happy birthday, Frankie."

She reaches for the proffered card automatically. It's a mistake. Or not. Either way, it gives him the opportunity to steal the forbidden kiss that part of her somehow knew was on the agenda. Light and brief, it nonetheless causes a lurch in the pit of her stomach that's both familiar and just a little bit traumatic. A tiny, split-second moment of… something. An unfulfilled promise, a shared admission and acceptance of something risky that's not as cold and dead as they endlessly try to pretend.

_I still want you,_ she thinks, looking up into the warm, quizzical dark eyes that study her in gentle silence. _Well, of course I bloody do. Heaven help me._

"Go," he says, suddenly and deliberately autocratic. "Get the Broome stuff finished, email me the results, and then quietly disappear before they catch on."

It breaks the spell. Frankie's not sure if she's glad or not. She nods and plucks the envelope from his hand. "Will do. Thanks, Boyd."

He turns away from her, the move to put some physical distance back between them evidently quite deliberate. Over his shoulder, he adds, "And for the record…"

She already moving towards the door, but she stops and looks back at him. "What?"

His grin is breathtakingly feral. "You never did offer to model that particular little gift for me."

Frankie has never been one to blush easily, but nonetheless she feels a slow burn begin in her cheeks. Flustered, annoyed and… something else… she subjects him to the most icy, most magnificent glare she can manufacture. "And in what universe, exactly, would _that_ have constituted appropriate labwear?"

"I never said anything about the lab," he says, dark eyes glinting with inappropriate mirth. "I had an altogether different venue in mind."

Really, he's incorrigible, and worse when no-one else is around to call him out for it. Frankie, though, has rallied. Heading for the door again, she says, "Shame you weren't a bit more persuasive then, isn't it?"

He laughs, his manner suddenly easy and amiable. "Interesting. I'll file that away for future reference."

"You do that," Frankie tells him, on the verge of making good her escape. Too many only half-buried memories.

"Frankie." His voice follows her out into the squad room. Again, she looks back. "Happy birthday."

"Yeah," she says, falling naturally back into the pattern of casual denial that's been their way of life for far too long, "you said that. See you later, Boyd."

Quickly, she collects her possessions from Spencer's desk and doesn't look back as she heads for the lab. The ice they are skating on seems to be getting thinner and thinner, but she's stubborn in her sudden resolution that today will _not_ be the day that it finally cracks open beneath them.

Though, as birthday presents go, it might –

No. Frankie casts the thought away before it can develop any further. One day, maybe, but not today. _Definitely_ not today.

_\- the end -_


End file.
